


What's in a name? or Jeeves and The Problem

by thesadchicken



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pet Names, it's the honeymoon stage, they're very physical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 13:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18477667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: In the early stages of their relationship, Jeeves and Bertie encounter a Problem.





	What's in a name? or Jeeves and The Problem

**Author's Note:**

> I’m addicted to these two! If anyone knows of a blog/forum/dreamwidth/livejournal type of thing where a chap can discuss Jeeves and Bertie, or just Wodehouse in general, please let me know in the comments!

I would hate to bore you, don’t you know, with unnecessary details of what happens when the sun sets over Berkeley Mansions, but I think you ought to hear about it. Let it be a lesson to all you lovebirds and all that.

It was right after Jeeves – my man, you know – had become a little bit more than just my valet. Officially, of course, he still pulled in his weekly wages for cooking my meals when I dined at home and whatnot, but actually he was what that poet chap called the thingummy of his whatsit. I rather fancy that, had Madeline Bassett been there to witness us in the wee hours of the morning – which, most thankfully, she had not – she would have described us as two little bunnies in love.

At first, this unexpected turn of events was all I had ever dreamed it would be. Days were spent in idle reverie, nights were devoted to sweet surrender, and everything was oojah-cum-spliff. I would lie back in the sitting room, prop my legs up on a table and watch Jeeves come and go. It didn’t matter if Tuppy or Bingo or Barmy or even my dreaded Aunt Agatha were all there with me – my eyes knew only Jeeves.

When we were alone I would pester him into abandoning his duties and canoodling on the sofa. He would humour the young master for five to thirty minutes, and then he would stand up and act very offended. If you haven’t seen Jeeves trying to act offended while recovering from a thorough canoodling session – and I bally well hope you haven’t! – then you cannot understand the true meaning of the word “attractive”. Panting, dishevelled, his tie half undone, his hair falling into his eyes – he was irresistible. I would smile at him, quite remorseless, and beg him to stay for another t. c. s. He would protest for a minute, but he would always give in at the end.

It was on a day like this that The Problem arose. Jeeves was washing the dishes and I was growing restless after waiting all day for Gussie Fink-Nottle to biff off. He’d spent hours in my sitting room, hiding from none other than Roderick Spode, bemoaning the lack of newts in London. Let it not be said that Bertram Wooster is an impatient sort of fellow. I took this incessant abuse from Fink-Nottle and even tried to comfort the infuriating man, patting him on the head from time and time and saying ‘there, there, Gussie old fruit’.

But the moment he walked out the door, I all but ran to the kitchen, where Jeeves, as I previously mentioned, was washing the dishes. I wrapped my arms around his waist from behind and rested the old bean on his shoulder.

‘I thought he’d never leave,’ I said, referring to Gussie, of course. 

‘Mister Fink-Nottle did seem rather intent on staying until sunrise, sir,’ Jeeves replied. I could hear the smile in his voice, even as he continued cleaning the dishes.

‘Yes, well, I told him in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t stay the night. He simply couldn’t. I have other plans, don’t you know…’

My hands slid down his shirt and reached the front of his trousers, where my fingers found the buttons.

‘Sir…’ Jeeves breathed over the clatter of dishes.

I placed a kiss on his back. ‘Really, Jeeves, not now. It’s always “sir this” and “sir that”, but, I mean to say, not when we’re alone, what?’

Silence suddenly filled the room and Jeeves went very still. ‘You would prefer to be addressed otherwise?’

I fumbled with the front of his trousers. ‘Well, you might try calling me by my name.’

‘Mr. Wooster?’

‘No, dash it: Bertie. Call me Bertie. Or Bertram at the very least.’

He batted my wandering hands away and turned to face me with a frown on his handsome face. ‘I fear that would be most inappropriate, sir.’

‘Oh come now!’

‘No, sir, I must insist.’

‘What absolute rot, Jeeves!  Won’t you at least try?’

He pursed his lips and sighed. I could see the words forming in that great fish-fed brain of his; I could see him pondering them. He tried them on with a quiver of the upper lip, his eyes locked onto my own. ‘Bertram… Bertie…’

And then he turned away, a blush spreading on his cheeks. He looked so dashed beautiful that I leaned in for a kiss, but he brought his hand up between us, gently pressing his fingers to my lips. ‘Mr. Wooster…” he whispered, ‘Sir…’

It always ended there, as if it were truly inevitable. _Sir_. Even when he didn’t say it, he did; I heard it at the end of each phrase, whether it was there or not. He could bear it no other way. Because that was Jeeves: he found no shame in our escapades, but the feudal spirit remained. Because romping across the bedroom floor was perfectly reasonable, but calling me by my Christian name was an absolute _faux-pas_.

It weighed on me sometimes. I longed to hear him call me something else, something he could make his own. It would have made a deuce of a lot of difference to a fellow's life, being able to hear his own name on his beloved’s lips. And so when he pulled me closer I resisted, I pushed him away.

‘Not until you say it,’ I told him, ‘Not until you call me Bertie.’

He sighed, he tried, he failed. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it without uttering a word.

‘You don’t love me,’ I said.

‘You know that isn’t true.’ _Sir_. I heard it, even though he had fought the impulse to say it.

‘Then say it!’ I dared him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, like the all-suffering master of an unruly dog. I stuck out the lower lip in a pitiful show of displeasure. But, really, I mean to say, the man gave me no other choice.

Jeeves looked at me then, his grey eyes softening like I knew they would.

‘If it is of the utmost importance to you…’

‘It is!’

‘Then I shall endeavour to change my ways.’

I remained thoroughly unconvinced, but one must give a fellow a chance. And to be perfectly honest, all this bally “abstinence-until-he-says-it” business was getting rather strenuous.

‘Right ho,’ I said with outstretched arms, ‘then come here.’

He kissed me and held me as he always did; soft, warm lips on mine; strong but gentle arms around my waist. He tried to appease my worries in his heated embrace. And, by Jove, appease he did! I trembled and thrashed and jolted under my man’s touch. Somehow we found ourselves in the bedroom, shirts and trousers lost during the journey. Jeeves laid me down on the bed and pressed me deep into the mattress, covering my body with his own. I came undone in his arms, and when we had both stopped trembling, he placed a tender kiss on my nose.

I fell asleep caressing his hair. When morning peaked through the curtains he was already gone.

~

Only a day or two later, we were summoned to Brinkley Court by Aunt Dahlia to resolve some conflict or other. Something to do with the chauffeur, Waterbury, and a parrot named Titty, and ladies’ underthings.

When I say “we”, I mean, of course, Jeeves. To tell you the truth, I never troubled myself with the details of that particular adventure. The love light that undoubtedly shone in my eyes blinded me to everything but my man. How he managed to find a solution to Aunt Dahlia’s problem while spending half his days under the sheets with the young master, I don’t know. Jeeves truly is a wonder.

It was during this time at Brinkley that The Problem resurfaced. We had been taking a walk through the grounds when, unable to resist, I pinched Jeeves on the backside. He raised disapproving eyebrows at me, but we Woosters are very persistent, so I pinched him again.

‘Sir!’ he protested.

‘It’s no use saying “sir”, Jeeves. The sun is out, the birds are chirping, everything is absolutely corking and I’m in love with you.’

‘We might easily be seen or heard,’ he said, but his eyes were travelling up and down the Wooster frame in quite an improper way. It made my head spin.

‘Follow me,’ I nodded towards a shrubbery. Before you could say “kiss me Jeeves and take your time” we were behind the thick wall of plants, hands wandering over each other’s bodies.

I’m not ashamed to tell you that at this point I stumbled over some pebble or other and fell, pulling Jeeves down with me. I landed, wincing, on my back, and he landed on top of me. His hat fell off his head and rolled onto the grass. We looked at each other, quite bewildered – if bewildered is the word I want – and then we both burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

Jeeves laughed like he did everything else; with elegance and grace. The same, sadly, cannot be said for the last of the Woosters, whose laugh is rather loud and high-pitched. To muffle my boisterous show of emotion, Jeeves covered my mouth with his palm, shaking his head admonishingly – although he was still smiling himself.

‘We are less than ten feet away from the tennis court,’ he whispered, ‘You will recall that Miss Travers and Miss Pendlebury expressed the desire to play this morning.’

I looked up at him, and a sudden heat enveloped me. It was to be expected, really. When a fellow is on his back, quite helplessly restrained by a paragon of male beauty – and with said p. of m. b. lying on top of him! – well, it tends to stir things up around the midsection, if you know what I mean.

I could see the same yearning in Jeeves’ eyes. He removed his hand from my mouth, only to cover my lips with his own. With drooping eyelids and heaving chests we kissed, the clement spring sun coating our faces with hues of gold.

I could have stayed there forever. Jeeves’ hands were in my hair, and mine were on his hips, and a gentle breeze was making the flowers around us sway. We would have made a dashed good painting.

‘Jeeves?’ I said, as he moved to kiss my neck.

‘Yes, sir?’ he answered, his words muffled against my skin.

‘We would make a dashed good – wait, what did you say?’

He tried to silence me with a kiss, but I shook my head. ‘Jeeves!’

‘I do apologise…’

‘You promised not to call me that! Not when we’re alone!’

He pushed himself off the ground in a single graceful movement and extended his hand to me. I took it, grunting as he pulled me to my feet. I watched him pick up his hat, flick the dust off of it and calmly place it back on his head.

‘Well?’ I said. I was getting quite annoyed.

‘I cannot do it,’ he replied.

‘What do you mean you can’t do it?’

‘It is simply beyond my power.’

If anyone else had been there with us they would have picked my jaw off the grass and handed it back to me. I stood there in utter disbelief, watching as Jeeves straightened his tie and dusted off his trousers.

‘Beyond your power? You’ve solved more problems than I can count; you’ve explained to me the functions of the spinal cord; you know more than one entire poem by heart – but this is beyond your power?’

‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘Why, by George?!’

Suddenly, like clouds creeping into a clear sky, something very tragic crept into Jeeves’ eyes. It was a deep anguish that filled his pupils, furrowed his brow, and broke my heart. It felt worse than the time Tuppy had biffed me in the eye. I wondered if the heart truly did break – if mine was now sagging in my chest in two separate pieces.

So tormented was the look on my man’s face that I instantly regretted blaming him. Nothing in the world was worth the pain I read on his finely chiselled features.

‘There are certain things that cannot be changed,’ he spoke in a whisper.

‘But… but – I mean, you know…’ I stammered, blinking in the sunlight. I must have looked a blithering idiot, but he was kind enough to ignore my stuttering.

‘I was raised to be this way, and I have worked my entire life to preserve the same principles and values upon which I was shaped.’

‘I know that, Jeeves, but –’

‘It is my nature, my very essence. Do you understand? I can’t change.’

I had never heard him speak with such emotion. His eyes would not leave mine, and it tore the breath out of my lungs. It was agony to know that I would always be “Mr. Wooster” to him, that he deemed our situation so terribly hopeless. That, even in his marvellous brain, no solution presented itself.

‘You really can’t?’ I muttered pitiably.

In what I can only assume was a moment of weakness, Jeeves closed the distance between us and tenderly cupped my face in his hand.

‘Forgive me, dearest…’ he said.

I closed my eyes and nestled into his touch. Bertram Wooster is a resilient sort of chap, but there are things that are too dreadful to bear. The look of pain on Jeeves’ face is one of them. So I vowed right then and there to never –

‘What did you call me?’ I asked, suddenly opening my eyes and looking up at him in wonder.

Slowly, a discreet smile slipped onto Jeeves’ lips as he realised it.

‘I believe we have found a solution to our problem,’ he said, holding my hand and quietly lowering me onto the grass behind the shrubs.

‘I say! You’ve done it again, Jeeves!’ I beamed, ‘How could I ever doubt you? You really are a marvel!’

‘Thank you, my dear.’ 

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I write/read Jooster fanfic (or, let’s be honest, even an actual Wodehouse story) near the very end I hear the theme song from the “Jeeves and Wooster” television series playing in my head ♫


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